Not Looking Back
by Anti-canon
Summary: Castiel has always been wary of his questionable neighbor, but what happens when he lets Dean in?


**A/N: This was written for sundance_kid_67 over at LJ and really should have been finished quite a long time ago, but I've been having some issues lately and so it took forever. Hopefully the fic will make up for it? Anyways, please leave any comments or criticisms, I love to hear from all of you!**

You know what he is. You may turn a blind eye, avoid confrontation, but that doesn't mean you don't know. You're not stupid, just the product of an abusive household. You learned early- bad things happen to people who pry. So when he comes home at obscene hours of the night, mysterious duffel slung over his shoulder, demeanor calm and collected despite a ragged outward appearance, you say nothing. And neither does he.

Dean Winchester is a man of few words, only speaking when spoken to, and even then, answering in the least amount of words possible. When he catches your gaze from down the hall, or when the two of you are stuck in the elevator together, there are no words, just the most subtle of gestures. Sometimes it is the inclination of his chin, his fingers waving from their place resting on his hip, thumb stuck in the corner of his pocket. You haven't quite decided why he acknowledges you in this way- he offers it to no one else, but you don't question it.

You suppose that he might just be recognizing your silence, admitting the secret held between the two of you. It doesn't really matter though. You know the rules, you stay out of his way and he'll stay out of yours. At least that was how it operated for the first three years. But today it all changes when you answer a knock on the door around noon, and there he stands, arms braced against the doorway and hips jutting out.

Neither of you say anything, just staring at each other for several tense moments, but you haven't moved aside to let him in yet, so he quirks his lips and straightens out. He clears his throat and on the first couple of tries nothing comes out, but he lifts his hand to reveal a new-looking measuring cup and finally whispers "Sugar?" The whole thing is ridiculously contrived but you dare not challenge him so instead you move back away from the door and head to the kitchenette in hunt of the useless sugar. You don't miss the click of the door as he shuts it behind him.

You don't know why he would come here, but he doesn't really seem to be up to anything menacing. He stands awkwardly in the living room, taking in the sparse décor and fiddling with his wristbands. And though he looks out of touch, he never once loses that edge of dangerousness that hangs about him. When you return with the bag of sugar he looks up from his shoes and sort of half-smiles at you. It throws you off with how genuine it seems and in your astonishment the bag falls from your hand and drops to the floor.

Immediately you drop to the floor and try to sweep it up in your hands, but suddenly he is there, crouching beside you and his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. You stop and stare at it for a few second before moving up its length until you rest your stare on his face. There is something almost feral in his eyes, hungry, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He leans into you and when you don't pull away black starts to spill out of his irises until it completely engulfs his eyes. And then his mouth is on yours and his hands are pushing you down and you don't make a sound. Just like always.

* * *

><p>That was the first time and thinking about it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but for different reasons than you care to admit. Because as much as you want to blame fear or shock, or a sense of self-preservation you know it can't be any of those. He comes for you almost every night now and you never turn him away. Because instead of feeling fear, or shock, or the fighting presence of the will to survive, you feel exhilarated and alive and so, <em>so <em>good.

You think this must make you a bad person, surely it means that you are cut of the same cloth as he is. But the thought isn't nearly as disturbing as it should be. So what if you and he are kith and kin? Sometimes when he comes over he doesn't lead you to the bedroom, but instead sits with you and watches bad re-runs or pilfers from you fridge and on rare occasion he takes your hand and leads you to the Impala- all without much of any words. He buys you things and you cook for him and in between the two of you have nearly soundless, but mind-numbing sex.

It's as good a deal as any and you are surprised to find that you would call yourself happy. So on the day he shows up to your door, the front of his clothes soaked in blood, favoring a leg, eyes as black as night and asks you to come away with him, you have only one answer. "Yes."


End file.
